


Leptirica

by onvavoir



Series: The Wisdom of Crocodiles [1]
Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Character Turned Into Vampire, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-24
Updated: 2015-05-24
Packaged: 2018-03-29 16:35:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3903241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onvavoir/pseuds/onvavoir





	Leptirica

Matt wakes up on the floor of his apartment, weak as a kitten. He doesn't smell clotted blood, and he's not wearing the suit. The bruises on his body are all at least two days old. He turns his head to rest his cheek on the floor. The movement intensifies the ache in his head and body, a rolling wave of misery with nausea bobbing around on top. The night before is a blank, and for a terrible moment he wonders if he got himself a concussion.

Judging by the way his moan bounces off surfaces, he's somewhere between the sofa and the bedroom door. No idea how long he's been lying there. He gets his hands beneath him and pushes up. Weakness washes over him, and his arms buckle. Walking: not an option. He pulls himself along the floor towards the sofa. The bed is miles away, an unconscionable distance given his state. He has to stop and rest too many times to count. When he finally does manage to scale the towering mountain of the sofa, his phone rings.

_Foggy. Foggy. Foggy. Foggy._

The sound doesn't dig into his brain like a needle, so he's pretty sure this isn't a hangover. The phone, however, is on the floor, vibrating well out of arm's reach. He swears and lets his head loll back. He rolls off the sofa. At least getting down is easier. By the time he reaches the phone, the call's gone to voicemail, but true to form, Foggy calls again right away.

"Hrnh."

"Uh. Matt, you okay?"

"No. Dying."

It doesn't occur to him until he hears the jag in Foggy's voice that it wasn't the best way to exaggerate.

"Dying as in I got stabbed through the pancreas and I'm bleeding out on the floor, or dying as in I had too much liquor last night?"

"Neither. Flu maybe. Feel horrible."

Talking makes him feel faint. He lets his head rest on the coolness of the floor with the phone lying on his right ear.

"You want me or Karen to come over? You sound pretty rough, buddy."

The off-key note of concern in his voice hasn't gone away.

"No. 'L be okay."

"I would _love_ to believe that, but y'know, I do actually know you. We're gonna stop by after work with some chicken soup."

He's too weak to argue, so he just whispers _thanks_ and hangs up. The world fades out for a while.

***

The cab drops him in front of his building and drives off as he taps his way to the front door. He fishes his keys out of his pocket and drops them. Picks them up. Sticks the wrong one in the lock. He might be slightly drunk. Champagne goes straight to his head, which is why he doesn't normally drink it. But people had kept pressing flutes of it into his hand at that damn benefit, and it'll serve him right for letting Foggy and Karen talk him into going if he has a hangover tomorrow.

Something makes him pause, the faintest scent. Something he can't ever remember smelling before. It's not bad exactly, but sort of... old. Primal. Intensifying. Someone's here. He has the sensation of being somehow  _enclosed_ , and then there's nothing.

***

For once Matt isn't aware of them in his building before the door opens and wakes him. For a split-second his heart leaps up into his throat, until he recognises footsteps and low voices and the smell of chicken soup. Stock, carrots, celery, noodles. Spring onions. His stomach does a barrel roll.

"Jesus, Matt!"

Scrabble of heels and Foggy's leather soles down the steps, and then two sets of arms drag him unevenly to the sofa. Karen smells like Dove soap and that powdery perfume that she only wears on certain days, when she wants to look and feel especially good. He tries not to think about whether she's wearing it because she knew she'd be coming here.

Foggy, moving around the sofa, smells of the aftershave Matt got him for Christmas and one of the hotdogs from that cart down the street from the office. The one he swore he'd never eat from again after a bout of food poisoning. 

There's something else, underneath it all, a kind of corporeal scent. For an electric moment he thinks they might have had sex before they came here, but no, that's not it. It's organic, but metallic... blood. _Oh_. Matt studiously turns his mind elsewhere. He's not squeamish, but he doubts Karen would be comfortable knowing that he knows.

"We should take him to a hospital," Karen says, swiping at her phone.

Matt paws at her. The touch makes her freeze up for a second, cheeks warming, and then she brushes her hair behind her ear. 

"I'm... I'll be okay," he whispers.

"That's funny," Foggy says. "I could have sworn your exact words were 'I'm dying.'"

Matt musters the strength to give him the finger.

"Ah. See, he's fine. We brought you some soup, buddy."

Foggy picks up the package off the floor and sets it down in front of him. A wave of nausea rolls over him. Was it something he ate? He doesn't remember throwing up, and he definitely doesn't smell it.

"Can you put it in the fridge? Not hungry."

They glance at each other.

"Have you eaten _anything_ today, Matt?" Karen asks.

He squirms with revulsion.

"Don't think I could hold it down."

"Have you been vomiting? He's probably dehydrated--" Karen prods at him, checking his pulse (he knows it's too fast). "We should get him to bed."

"Matt, you want me to call your nurse friend?"

"No, just... please, I need to rest. Tired." 

Foggy and Karen shuffle around, pick him up as best they can and drag him awkwardly into the bedroom. They put him to bed like he's a child, and for once in his life Matt doesn't resist the fuss as Karen tucks the covers up under his chin. She click-clacks into the kitchen and moves about, putting the soup away. The smell subsides a little, and he feels less like he's going to regurgitate his own stomach.

"You need somebody to help you to the bathroom?" Foggy asks in a low voice.

Matt shakes his head. "No, I'm fine."

He hasn't been to the bathroom all day-- maybe Karen's right about the dehydration. If he weren't so focused on being miserable, he'd wonder about that. He yawns. It's rare for him to sleep more than a few hours, but drowsiness is already creeping in. More pressing, though, is the way that Foggy smells as he leans in to set Matt's phone on the bedside table. His stomach growls, and Foggy laughs.

"You sure you don't want some of that soup?"

The drowsiness disperses, and Matt has to consciously will his body back down onto the bed. Sweat breaks out all over him. He wants to bite Foggy, as if he's some sort of rabid wild animal. He wants to catch Foggy's tender throat between his teeth and close his jaws. What's happened to him? Did someone slip something into his drink last night?

Dread sinks into his gut. They have to go.

"I'll have some later. Wanna sleep now."

"Okay. Call me if you need anything. That's not a request, it's an order."

They hover a little longer and then leave him. He's so relieved when they're gone that he nearly cries. He feels awful, aching and weak and sick, but more than that, he feels _wrong_.

He marinates in guilt for a few minutes. His violent impulses are nearly always reactive, defensive. He'd never hurt Foggy. But his stomach is an empty pit, and for some reason it made him want to tear into Foggy like a cat with a mouse. Eventually the pang of hunger subsides into the general malaise, and he drifts off to sleep dreaming that he's being followed.


End file.
